Jim hears about the open spot for the corporate position, decides to give it a shot. But he overestimates the drive to the city by a long shot due to nerves and not enough sleep, ends up arriving an hour and a half before his interview is even scheduled. It's a rainy day, and he debates over whether or not he'd be dry in time for his interview if he chooses to sit on these cold marble steps with the edge of the overhang for cover. But then, through the haze and fog of the city, he sees a warm, welcoming light. It's not a Starbucks or anything he's familiar with, but rather some kind of family-grown cafe that's barely surviving out here against the competition of the bigger chains.

It reminds Jim of the Scranton branch, and for no reason other than what's probably a random synapse firing off in his brain, he thinks about Michael Scott. After the branch closed, he just kind of disappeared. They gave him a severance package. It's more of a reassurance in Jim's mind than an actual fact. He'll remember people from Scranton every now and then. Walking around in a Best Buy, he'll see a Vance Refrigeration appliance and think of Phyllis, or a Cup O' Noodles in a supermarket will put a smile on his face as Kevin springs to mind.

Michael would like this place, and so Jim takes a step away from the locked doors, crosses the street, and makes his way inside, bringing in the chill and the dampness of the rain with him.

It's dimly lit, almost empty - apart from the girl behind the counter with too many facial piercings and another woman sitting by the window. He orders a simple coffee, adds his own milk and sugar. It tastes like lighter fluid, but it does the trick within the first couple sips. That's when his eyes are really opened, and as he's searching for a place to sit, his eyes land on the woman. There's a series of paints to her left, and on the canvas in front of her... Jim can't do anything else but stare at the picture in front of him. It's a mirror image of the rain-slick streets outside, the laundromat - with one of its neon lights flickering, two others burned out completely. Everything down to the fire hydrant, paint corroded by years of precipitation.

She must feel his eyes on her, because she shifts, looking back over her shoulder, and when she catches his gaze, holds it in her own, he's fascinated by this stranger he's somehow known his entire life.

"That's beautiful," he murmurs. "Do I... I don't know you, do I?"

"Thanks. And no," she replies, holding out a paint-smudged hand. "I'm Pam."


*


He rolls over in bed, turns the pillow over to the cold side. Karen shifts, murmurs something indecipherable in her sleep, and he freezes, hoping he hasn't woken her up. A second, where all he can hear is his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, then nothing. He releases the breath he wasn't even aware he was holding. He kicks the covers off, pulls them back on, slides one leg on top of the blankets while keeping the other underneath. All he can hear is the clock - its steady tick, tick, tick - and Karen's breathing, slow and even.

Five minutes later, he's sitting on the couch with a pillow and a blanket, flipping through channels before landing on an infomercial. He mutes the TV, listening to the high-pitched hum from the screen.

"How'd the interview go?" she'd asked him at dinner, as they opened last night's leftovers (coconut chicken) and talked about the progress the branch was making ("we've decided to increase the paper count per ton, it should bring in the customers we lost to Staples last season"). It'd gone fine, he told her, and then there was silence, during which he thought about paint smudges on otherwise perfect skin until Karen filled the silence with more talk about how Ronald, the district manager, was pushing for a raise to cover his kid's tuition for some Ivy League school.


*


The third time they go out for coffee, Pam brings up the documentary.

"Don't I know you from somewhere? Like, from TV or something?" she asks, and Jim spends the next few seconds having a staring contest with his cappuccino. Should he lie, tell her he has no idea what she's talking about? Then she'd feel like an idiot, and he'd feel like a dick for not telling the truth. Something about her makes him want to be an honest person, even though he's lied to more than enough strangers on the street when asked. He comes out of his internal dialogue and wonders how long she's been waiting for him to speak, but realizes she's not going to drop this any time soon.

"Yeah. Yeah, I was on that... documentary about the paper company that was on a few years back--"

"In Scranton!" Pam interrupts, her eyes sparkling with realization. "I remembering watching an episode when it first started."

"That's the one," Jim admits, looking up from his beverage when he thinks it's safe, internally wincing and waiting for the questions he knows are coming. What was it like having those cameras follow you around everywhere? What's it really like working at a paper company?

"Whatever happened to that show?" she asks, idly stirring her coffee with a spoon, and he watches the little whirlpools it leaves behind.

"Well, after the branch closed... there really wasn't much point in, you know, doing it anymore." Pam nods, leaning in as if to divulge a secret, and Jim finds himself moving forward in response. It's a gut reaction, something clearly not connected to his brain. He clears his throat, though, and pretends it was all for the purpose of slouching against the back of his chair.

"Do you know what happened to everyone else?" she asks, resting her chin in her hand.

"Uh -- well, I know Phyllis married Bob Vance--"

"Of Vance Refrigeration!" Pam interrupts suddenly.

"I thought you said you only watched one episode," Jim says suspiciously.

"Okay, maybe more than a few," she confesses, ducking her head and covering her blush behind her hair. Jim has the sudden thought that it may be just about the most adorable thing she's ever done.

"And the truth comes out, Beesly." It's the first time he's called her by anything other than Pam, and she raises an eyebrow. Way to go, Jim. "Was that... I mean, is it alright if...?"

"No, it's fine," she says softly. "It's just... I'm not used to people calling me anything other than Pam, or Pammy." They both make a face at the latter. "I know, I know. But... it's okay. I like it."

Jim's grin widens. He's emboldened by her encouragement, made more confident, and the excitement is so evident - he wouldn't be surprised if she could feel it too, so palpable between them. Their knees bump under the table, and it's enough to bump him back into reality.

"Well, Phyllis became Mrs. Vance Refrigeration, Toby went to Costa Rica, Creed disappeared after they found out about some identity scam he was running the whole time, and I'm pretty sure I saw Meredith on an episode of Cops once. Some kind of drunk driving arrest."

There's a long pause before Pam adds, "What about Dwight?"

"Oh, Dwight. Just the name brings back so many memories." Pam giggles. "Apparently he got a job at Staples; he's some kind of head director/manager hybrid in upstate New York where he can do pretty much whatever the hell he wants. Moved his whole family out there, too."

"... family?" The look on Pam's face is somewhere on the verge of fascination with a little bit of disgust thrown in for good measure, and Jim doesn't blame her. Every year that passes, he finds himself horribly intrigued by Dwight and his life, and when he doesn't hear about any new developments, there's a strange sense of loss. He's come to the conclusion that the universe is playing a cruel joke on him.

"Yeah, you didn't know? He married Angela; they've got about ten or twelve kids now, something like that. Oh, and he sent me a Christmas card with a picture of the spawn."

"Shut up."

"I'm not kidding! I keep it in my wallet." Jim rifles around through his pockets and comes up with a folded picture, sliding it across the table. Pam opens it up and claps a hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter.

"Our generation's very own legion of Schrutes," he adds with a smirk.

"Okay, do you think their hair grows naturally like that, or do they cut it so it parts down the middle like his does?" Pam can barely get the words out around her laughter, and she's crying now.

"Napkin?" He reaches to grab napkin for her from the dispenser, and he wonders if she feels the tingle that passes through his hand like a static spark when their fingers briefly brush.


*


They're walking to their separate cars - it's the end of the lunch hour, and he has to get back now, he explains. David Wallace has really been riding him lately, and with this new corporate position, he can't afford to make a bad impression. A breeze stirs up the icy air, and they both pull their coats in simultaneously, shivering.

"Yeah, I should be heading back to the studio. Lisa gets really mad if I leave her alone with the phones for too long," she says, waving off his guilty expression and smiling until there's something that warms him inside, despite the chilly weather. She spins on her heel to walk away, and Jim hears someone speaking before he recognizes that it's his own voice.

"Pam." She turns, and he fumbles for the words.

"Would you... maybe want to go out sometime?"

"You mean..." She hesitates, and for a split second, he thinks she's going to laugh in his face and drive away. "... not for coffee?"

"Not for coffee."

His phone rings, cutting her off before she can reply, and he checks to see the caller ID: Karen. When he looks up from the phone, it's easy for her to read his face: she knows there's someone else. He has someone else waiting. He watches, unable to stop time in its tracks, her expression changes from anticipation to despair.

"Pam, wait..." But she's already in her car, starting the engine, and she speeds out of the parking lot, leaving him alone, his phone still buzzing in his hand.


*


He knows the break-up is coming before either of them says a word.

The distance between them in bed is infinite, even though Karen's only an arm's length away. There's even a night where she doesn't come home at all, but there's no usual call telling him she's working late. He's making grilled cheese when she comes in the next morning, and when he looks at her, there's just nothing. No tears, no anger. She's just done.

She moves out not too long afterward, and shortly after that, Jim decides to pack up everything and move to the city. The commute is agonizing, he needs something to distract him from the painful memories of his break-up, the city life will be a good change of pace. All of these are the reasons he keeps playing over and over in his head, keeps telling friends when they ask him why. All to divert his attention from the phone number he's repeated over and over until it's burned into every facet of his brain, the number she pressed into his hand after writing it down on the cafe's napkin. It's the number he dials at least three times a week, but never has the courage to press send afterwards.

He buys an apartment with a great view of the skyline. He throws himself into his work, puts in so many overtime hours that Wallace has to stop by his office after the third week to tell him he's getting a paid vacation, effective immediately. But he doesn't get on a plane. He stays in his apartment, ignores his razor until a beard rears its hairy head. Sometimes, he'll walk by the cafe across from the building, peering inside the windows. Less often, he'll go inside and order a coffee and wait hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of brown hair. But she never shows. He flips through the Yellow Pages, finds the name of the studio she mentioned working for.

"She left us a little while ago. To work on her own art," the woman on the other line says.

"Well, if she calls - for any reason, any at all - could you give her this number and tell her to call Jim Halpert?" He mentions the number and then hangs up, feeling empty.


*


Jim's leaving the building for the night when the first drop hits his nose, then his arm. He looks up into the sky. It couldn't be rain. The city's had its worst heat wave for the last three days. But then the rain comes down from the sky, and not in a light dusting. This is a downpour, one that has him soaked to the bone in seconds, but it's cool, and refreshing, and it earns a laugh from him as he runs across the street, dodging cars, ducking into the first door he can make out through the drops blurring his vision.

He's shaking the water from his jacket, combing fingers through his wet hair, and a hand appears in front of him.

"Napkin?"

The voice makes his heart leap into his throat. It can't be. He looks up, and he recognizes exactly where he is.

The cafe.

He glances down, down to the arm holding the napkin in front of his face, and then he looks up to the shoulder and then the face and the brown eyes looking up at him expectantly. The napkin still hovers in her hand between them, and he takes it without ever tearing his eyes away from hers. She opens her mouth, he opens his. Nothing comes out of either of them, and they both laugh nervously. He draws in a breath, realizing that he's still standing there dumbly, drenched and looking somewhat like a homeless man, and what was he thinking, not shaving and then his mouth is saying something before his head can catch up.

"Pam, I'm so sorry, I didn't - she and I, Karen, we're..."

She shakes her head to cut him off, takes the napkin back from him, reaches up and dabs at his face, and the mere gentleness of that action makes his heart swell.

"I know. It's okay. The studio called me, they told me you were trying to find me, and I guess - I didn't want to believe that you would still... after I just--"

It's his turn to cut her off. She lets out this little gasp when he slides an arm around her waist and pulls her tightly against him, and she's not protesting the fact that he's soaking her through to the bone. She isn't bothered when he raises a hand to run a finger along her jawline, finding a little smudge of paint there.

"You've been working," he murmurs, and she shivers - he can't tell if it's from the lack of space between them or the cold. The way she leans into his touch, however - that's how he knows it's more than just wet clothes. He kisses her then, deep and hungry, and she responds, arms snaking around his neck. The beard doesn't bother her, he notices. It's too long now to actually leave a burn on her unblemished cheek, and when they break apart, he rests his forehead against hers, refusing to let her go.

"What took you so long?" she whispers.

For the first time that Jim can remember, he wishes the cameras were here.

They'd capture this moment better than he ever could.